


in the mirror's mind

by TheKnittingJedi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Distortion Michael, Inspired by Art, Leitner Books (The Magnus Archives), Mildly Dubious Consent, One Shot, Other, Pre-Gertrude Gerry, but there's definitely something going on, but they're chill really, gerry is a sweetheart, i wouldn't cathegorise this as monsterfucking, lots of plot for such a short fic, magnusification of historical figure laurence whistler, meet cute if you squint, monsterflirting maybe, only god and jonny sims can judge me, seriously check out the art i linked it in the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24801943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheKnittingJedi/pseuds/TheKnittingJedi
Summary: Gerry knows he —itis dangerous, but knowledge is his thing. It wouldn’t make sense to turn it away when it shows up. Even if it means forgetting himself for a while. He can stand to be the human half of something, from time to time.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 79





	in the mirror's mind

**Author's Note:**

> So, I can explain. What happened was, I read [this comic](https://tatumsdrawing.tumblr.com/post/620978219848450048/gerrymichael-comic) and I couldn't rest until I had _this_ written down. Heed the tags here and the comic's CW, and please let me know if you feel that something else should be tagged.
> 
> Thank you so much to saretton and pinehutch for the beta and for screaming along with me, and of course to tatum for my new obsession.
> 
> The title and the lines at the beginning of the fic are from Laurence Whistler's poem _The Guest._

_For he is gone. Now if any good thing_  
_Was left for the saying, it stays unsaid._

* * *

_Lyme Regis, 2013_

It starts with a book and a door. As it always does.

Standing outside the Lyme Regis museum on a day that could be generously described as balmy, Gerry looks down at his phone and then up at the red and white brick building in front of him, with his double glass entrance. According to the maps app, the odd and crumbly-looking construction is the right place.

His left hand tightens on the strap of his satchel until the eyes tattooed on his fingers stand out in sharp contrast with the bloodless skin. He forces himself to take a deep breath. Half of the reason he’s here is safe in his bag.

The other half is waiting inside.

He shakes his head. There’s no point in hesitating. He’s come all this way.

He steps on the pavement outside of the museum, stopping once he notices that what he mistook for an abstract pattern from afar is actually a mosaic of seashells.

He’s walking on a spread of spirals.

 _Ammonites,_ he remembers.

He’s looked up the history of this place on the train from Salisbury. The small town of Lyme Regis lies on a stretch of the Dorset shore called the Jurassic Coast, a strand of limestone, shale and clay where these fossils pop up like nobody’s business.

He knew some of it already. The Natural History Museum is one of his usual haunts when his mother is particularly obnoxious. He remembers reading about Mary Anning and visiting the fossil rooms again and again.

He didn’t know that Laurence Whistler, poet and glass engraver, had been involved in the Lyme Regis museum, though.

For the past three weeks, Gerry’s been looking into Whistler’s work with prisms. He’s coming straight from the Salisbury cathedral and he still has a headache from looking too long at the glass fuckery that’s kept there.

He knows how these prisms work, he’s read about them: the image engraved inside the block of glass changes with the light and the angle. Carving it is a painstaking and time-consuming job, and Gerry wants nothing more than to shatter each one of those prisms personally after seeing the Salisbury one in the flesh.

There were things in it that shouldn’t — that _couldn’t_ physically be in there.

Seeing the prism confirmed Gerry’s suspicions that Whistler’s work was worth following up on, but his trail would have gone cold then, if not for the book propped at the feet of the display case. Waiting for him.

He had looked left and right, but the other visitors — a couple of tourists and an elderly man — were too engrossed in that multifaceted lunacy to pay any mind to him as he bent down and picked up the book.

Part of him already knew what title he would read on the cover.

 _Armed October_ was the reason he was there. His pounding heart betrayed his excitement as he opened the cover to reveal the _ex libris_ he knew he would find. _From the library of Jurgen Leitner._

That’s why he cursed out loud when he saw a blank page instead, mocking him. A fake.

No, not a fake. As he examined it more closely, it became clear that while the pages looked pristine, the cover was old and tattered. Gerry recognised a rebound book when he saw one.

He looked up, his eyes falling back on the prism, the first hint of the headache that would follow him to Lyme Regis blossoming behind them. Someone had mutilated a Leitner, no doubt to catch his attention. Who would do such a thing? Why? And most of all, how? Leitners are powerful and volatile. One does not simply replace their covers without consequences.

Ignoring a reproachful look from the elderly gentleman, who was close enough to hear him curse and probably had opinions about more than just his language, Gerry shoved the book in his satchel and walked out of the cathedral. He needed time to think.

It wasn’t until he reached the train station to take the Southwestern back to London that he stopped, took out the book and opened it.

Strange things happened to him all the time. It was in his blood; it was — as much as he tried to shrug it off — his legacy. His mother’s obsession with Leitners was just the tip of the iceberg. But being a regular in the supernatural department didn’t make it less annoying when reality bent around him.

The words on the previously blank page swam before his eyes until he thought he was about to faint. The words themselves were moving, slowly forming the words _4 Bridge Street, Lyme Regis_ in spidery, smoky strokes.

Gerry didn’t have to go there. He could have gone back to London and none would have been the wiser. This was a mission he had invested himself in on his own free will, not because he felt a compulsion. That was an important distinction. He just rested a bit easier at each Leitner he obliterated from existence.

Gerry exhaled a long sigh and opened the maps app. Twenty minutes later, he was on a train, heading south-west.

* * *

There are no Whistler claptraps in the museum. Not officially.

The building had been slowly but surely crumbling down until 1993, when it was cleared and restored. Whistler himself was among those who had tried to save it in the Sixties, but he had ultimately given up. His connection to this place is very thin. So why has whoever left him the Leitner sent Gerry here?

His Doc Martens cover the distance that separates him from the glass door. He doesn’t look back at the ammonite pavement as he walks. He pushes the door open and steps inside.

There are posters and fliers on the walls, cheerfully advertising the museum’s collection and exhibitions, and a desk right before the entrance.

There’s also nobody there.

Just his luck.

He can hear voices and footsteps from farther rooms. This place is definitely open to the public. 

Gerry realises he has no clue what to do now. He’s considering just winging it when he sees a movement — something fast and unexpected — out of the corner of his eye and he turns abruptly.

He almost jumps. There’s a man there, with a black duster and long black hair. It takes Gerry another second to recognise his reflection.

It’s just a mirror.

Blood warms his face. Good thing there’s nobody around to witness it.

Gerry stomps across the lobby, reaching the bottom of a spiral staircase that goes up. Behind it there’s a long hallway. The voices are louder there, but there’s still nobody in sight.

_Maybe it’s just low season._

He takes _Armed October_ out of his satchel and leafs through it, but the pages are blank once again. He clicks his tongue as he puts the book away. He’s on his own. 

For a change.

What he needs is to get a move on and get a better idea of the place. Finding somebody who works here seems like the most promising course of action, and the corridor looks more modern and aseptic than the staircase, a likelier location for an administrative office.

It’s not until he’s reached the middle of the corridor that he notices two things.

Yes, this hallway is long. Too long. Based on what he’s seen of the building from outside, impossibly long.

And there are no doors.

Gerry smiles without humour. _Now we’re talking._

He slows down, then stops altogether. “Playing games, are we?” he asks, buying time to add up everything he’s seen so far.

Mirrors. Spirals. Distortions.

He thinks he knows which kind of Leitner this will be.

Gerry holds out his arms. “You wanted me here. Here I am.”

He’s not really expecting an answer, but he’s surprised by a chilling sound that almost overlaps with the end of his sentence, piercing his ears — his _mind_ — with cold, sharp fingers.

A laugh.

“Here you are,” echoes a voce behind him, so close Gerry can feel its vibrations on his neck. “But who are you?”

It takes every ounce of his self control to not turn around. It helps that he’s paralysed with fear, mixed with something that feels worryingly like anticipation.

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? He _is_ afraid, of course he is, he would be dumb not to be, and no matter what everyone says, he does _not_ have a death wish.

But he does not hunt cursed books and go out of his way to poke every supernatural bear he sees because he doesn’t have anything better to do. This is the closest he’s ever been to the other side. He’d rather cut out his own arm than waste this opportunity. 

Holding his breath, Gerry turns around.

There’s nobody behind him. Just a wall.

He hears that awful, scratching noise again, that laugh like teeth being dragged on a chalkboard, coming once more from behind him. Gerry turns quickly, before it vanishes, but now the laugh seems to come from somewhere else entirely.

The sound changes slightly, petering out into a series of echoing _oh-_ s. “So young and pretty. Did the old woman send you?”

Of course the monster knows his mother. Of _fucking_ course. “How do you know her?”

“That is a question. Here’s one for you: was she too afraid to come herself? Or too wise to take the bait?”

Gerry flexes his fingers. Making sense of what’s happening is hard enough, let alone holding a conversation while doing it. He needs to be alert, quick. He’s so tense that he feels little pinpricks all over his body. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“No.” The voice has a different quality, now. Less echo-y, more concrete. 

Gerry suspects that, if he were to turn around now, he wouldn’t just see a wall.

So he turns.

“I am not _trying_ ,” the monster in front of him specifies.

 _Monster_ may be a strong word, but it’s descriptive enough: the nightmare-shaped being in front of Gerry is definitely not a person. He looks like a stereogram that wished it was a real boy.

The thing has a face, but the more Gerry looks at it, the more it changes, its features shifting like seaweed in the current. Its long, fair hair is coiling and twisting like restless snakes. Its body is androgynous and skinny in a way that a human body wouldn’t tolerate. And its _hands…_

Its hands are made of sharp, long, curved bones.

The air still in Gerry’s lungs leaves them with a tiny: “Oh.” He feels dizzy, but he’s not going to faint, not even when the walls start to move, stretching and contracting, which is a thing they’re apparently doing, now.

It’s awful. And fascinating.

“I…” Gerry has to stop and let the nausea subside a bit before he’s able to speak again. “I have _so_ many questions.”

It’s hard to tell, honestly, with all the shimmering and the shifting going on, but the monster… the creature — oh, hell, there must be a better name. _It_ looks taken aback.

“Like, how did you fix that Leitner into doing what it does? And what’s your name?”

The thing goes slack for a moment, its form crystallising into a more definite but not less mind-fuck-y form. “You’re not scared.” It sounds almost disappointed, as much as something with a voice that sounds like broken glass can be.

Gerry shrugs. “I’d be stupid not to be.”

“But you’re more…” It cocks its head, as its features keep softening. “Mmm.”

Gerry closes his clammy hands into fists. He has an inkling that, as long as he keeps it intrigued _,_ the chances of the creature killing him are slimmer. “Well, I’ve been studying you and your buddies for a long time. The least I can do is take a good look.”

And that’s what he keeps doing: he doesn’t even blink as the face in front of him finally settles into something that doesn’t hurt the eyes so much. If he doesn’t look at its hands, it could almost pass as human.

A man. A boy, even, maybe.

Gerry licks his lips. “I’m going to tell you what I think. I think that you wanted to lure my mother here and that you used the Leitner as bait. I’m not the one you want, so you’re going to let me walk away.” He managed to keep his tone even. Good for him. If he’s going to die, at least he’ll have that going on.

There’s a pause, then the creature says, “Isn’t _that_ an excellent idea, pretty one.” Its lips curl into a smile that’s just a fraction too big for its face. As if Gerry needed a reminder that it wasn’t human.

“I’ll have the Leitner first,” he hears himself saying. _What is wrong with you?_ But he doesn’t backpedal. He hopes that this is the kind of monster that appreciates ballsy moves.

Instead of answering, the creature laughs (this time Gerry can’t help a full-body shiver) and it suddenly moves towards him.

They’re too far apart for the distance between them to be covered in one step, but if there’s something Gerry has learned in this short time, is that the laws of physics are more like vague suggestions for this creature.

He’s not ready for a couple of slender arms to snake on his shoulders and wrap around his neck, but he doesn’t step back, even if the bone hands are now a bit too close to his face for comfort. He can see the creature tapping his fingers from the corner of his eye.

“You’ve always had the Leitner.” It’s just a whisper, but the thing is leaning so close that Gerry can make out every word. He can also hear the smile in its voice. Hell, he can feel its breath on the shell of his ear.

He doesn’t move, he keeps his fists by his sides, but he backs up when the creature leans into him with all its weight, until he hits the wall and there’s nowhere else to go.

Talking, he needs to keep talking. “What do you mean?” He’s more breathless than he’d like, but he goes on regardless. “The Leitner’s blank.”

“ _Oooooh_ , is it?” It pulls back enough to let Gerry see its unsettling smile.

Its face is… not ugly. At least until you don’t look too closely into the whirlpools in its eyes, but even they are sort of mesmerising. _Careful with the swooning there,_ Gerry tells himself. But there’s no way to avoid the fact that this particular monster is not at all what he expected a monster to be.

Right now, for example, it sounds downright playful. “Take a look at it. Come on.”

Gerry lifts one eyebrow, but there’s no way he’s not going to do it.

Opening the satchel and slipping out the book is a bit harder with an eldritch entity plastered on him, but Gerry does it all the same. He holds the book in his left hand and has to reach across the creature’s shoulders to open it with his right, pulling them even closer in the process.

Gerry feels the weight of its gaze on his face as he opens the Leitner. “Motherfucker,” he curses when he sees the familiar _ex libris_.

“Hardly,” the creature replies gleefully.

Gerry lowers his arms, slipping the Leitner back into the satchel without looking. Come on, it can’t be _this_ easy. “Are you going to let me go?”

“Mmm,” the creature says again, tilting its head. “Am I?”

Gerry has the feeling that, abrasive or persuasive, there’s no way he can change the creature’s mind if it’s decided it wants him dead, or worse. He tries nonetheless. “You put this charade up to lure my mother here. I’m of no use to you.”

“Well, you see, pretty one, I didn’t. Unless Gertrude has kept more secrets from me than I thought.”

Gerry feels like they’re having two separate conversations and he’s lost track of both. “Who’s Gertrude?”

The creature leans closer again and Gerry acts on impulse, putting his hands on the things’ hips to keep it at a distance. He almost jumps at the contact. It’s like shoving his fingers into a socket.

“Someone who might like you,” it says, as if nothing happened, and Gerry realises he had forgotten the question. “Yes. Yes, I think you’ll do.” 

When the thing lets him go and pulls away, Gerry feels cold for a moment, just before the dizziness sets in again. He suspects he’s being kept upright by adrenaline and survival instinct alone. He’s going to have to deal with a hell of an aftermath later. Assuming there’s a later.

He’s holding back a laugh at his wild optimism when he looks over the thing’s shoulder and he notices the door. A perfectly normal door, wooden, green, with what looks like a brass handle.

Only it wasn’t there before.

The creature doesn’t turn the handle, but the door opens all the same, just a crack. Gerry finds it less unsettling than he ought to. “After you, pretty one.”

Gerry looks in its too-symmetrical face. How stupid does it think he is? “I’m not going to walk through any one of your doors.”

The thing opens its mouth, but its laugh is maddeningly out of synch. “But you already did.”

 _It’s just playing tricks._ “I didn’t.”

Then it all comes flashing back: the ammonites on the sidewalk, the way he looked down for a second — just a second, way more than it takes for one of those fuckers to mess with reality — before going forward and entering through…

“The museum door.” He wants to smack himself. Stupid. Careless. 

The creature laughs again, delighted. “The only way out is through this door. And I think you’ll like what you’ll find on the other side.”

Granted, Gerry has done a lot of stupid things in his life. But. “Why should I trust you?”

“What does trust have to do with anything? You’re going to walk through this door.”

“Why?”

The creature laughs for a third time. “Because _you want to know_ what’s on the other side.”

Oh, fuck it.

He does.

* * *

Knowledge has always been Gerry’s thing. He knows that people don’t see an intellectual when they look at him, with his clothes, piercings, scowl and bad dye job. It’s deliberate, at least from the small part of him that gives a fuck.

He knows that he should be worried that the thing guessed it.

He also knows that he has no choice. That, if the creature is telling the truth, what it’s offering is actually a way _out._

On the other side of the door there’s a dimly lit space filled with the kind of metal shelves you find in evidence storage rooms or libraries’ basements. Rows and rows as far as he can see. And it’s too dark to tell what’s on them, but they’re definitely not empty. Most of them seem to be holding thick binders. Gerry can smell the mold from here.

It’s underwhelming, but at least it doesn’t look dangerous.

“So, just to be clear,” he says, “you’re going to let me go. No strings attached.”

“Oh, so naive! There are always strings attached.”

“Mmm.” He sounds just like it, now.

“And so self-possessed. What does it take to get a reaction out of you?”

Gerry wants to scoff, but that would count as a reaction, would it? “Nothing that you can do, Knife Hands.”

“Really.” 

Suddenly, Gerry finds himself pressed against the closest stack. He overcomes the surprise quickly. His karma today is being pressed against hard surfaces by a particularly irritating eldritch entity, it seems. He can work with it.

“What will you do now, pretty one?” the monster asks, eyes glinting in the near darkness.

And Gerry… Gerry’s tired. Tired of running from place to place on his self-appointed mission. Tired to be foiled in his attempts to make the world a bit less shitty and dangerous. 

He’s tempted to give up, just once. To just do something stupid and unexpected, and if it kills him, well. Let the world burn.

What does he have to lose?

It takes nothing, the barest movement of his head, to cover the distance that separates his lips and the monster’s. He fully expects it to be unpleasant. He anticipates scorn, resistance, maybe. He expects violence, blood. (Part of him wants them.)

The soft gasp that goes straight into his mouth is surprising.

So is the way the monster’s non-Euclidean body tenses for a moment, then goes almost pliant against him.

And so is the parting of its lips, which are hard and thin and _good,_ and the staticky sensation as he... 

_It,_ Gerry corrects himself, lifting his hands to the monster’s chest and _shoving._

The creature’s eyes are huge and there’s something in them that wasn’t there before. Gerry brings a finger to his lower lip, which is bleeding. He doesn’t remember being bitten. He doesn’t feel any pain.

The thing is still in a way that a living being shouldn’t be able to. “Michael,” it says then.

It takes Gerry a few seconds to realise that it’s an introduction. “Gerard,” he whispers.

The creature — it — _Michael_ smiles, and Gerry is tired of the way his mind keeps chanting the words _knives knives danger._

Gerry blinks, and a door that wasn’t there before opens behind… Michael. “Ask of Gertrude Robinson,” it says, and it’s gone.

* * *

_London, 2014_

The first person Gerry met in the Archives is a woman dressed like a Monday morning in November, who eyed him head to toe and told him the place was off limits to visitors.

The second person he met, after he lied his way to her office, was Gertrude Robinson.

His life has changed considerably in a year, though now that he thinks about it it’s probably more of a progression. From amateur nightmare-hunter to assistant of the Magnus Institute’s archivist, the most obnoxiously dogged woman he’s ever met.

He hates it. He hates that he’s so busy he can't even take a cigarette break, hates that the underlying, general horror he’s always felt flowing under the surface of his life like an underground river now has his name and his address. In a metaphorical and a literal sense.

He also wouldn’t want it any other way.

He’s slaving away in the evidence room, trying to retrace the movements of clowns and skinwalkers, when the door squeaks open. He doesn’t look up. Whoever it is can fucking see he’s _busy._

Then he finds himself pushed down on the table, just as he remembers that the evidence room door has never squeaked before.

Gerry cries out in surprise, but he doesn’t fight back, not even when he is flipped on the table, suddenly facing up. His ribs hurt, something is definitely bruised there, but he doesn't react. The hands that pin his wrists over his head are as cold and unyielding as steel.

And so is the mouth that presses on his own, urgently.

 _Michael?_ He’s too close to it to be sure, but honestly, who else could it be? It’s just a detached thought of his analytical brain. Definitely not hopeful nonsense.

When he closes his eyes and parts his lips, Michael’s hands glide down his arms, scratching but not breaking the skin. Its tongue always leaves a stinging sensation in Gerry’s mouth, like peppermint or wasabi, or one of those poisonous frogs you're not supposed to lick.

Gerry’s hand goes up with a will of its own, smoothing the blond, thick hair on the back of Michael’s head. A million alarm bells are going off in his brain. He ignores them.

Gerry knows he — _it_ is dangerous, but knowledge is his thing. It wouldn’t make sense to turn it away when it shows up. Even if it means forgetting himself for a while. He can stand to be the human half of something, from time to time.

One of Michael’s hands cups his jaw, the tip of its fingers mere millimetres from his eye. Gerry lifts his leg to _(pull it closer)_ shove it away.

The swirling darkness where Michael’s face should be is terrifying. It’s a layered emotion, terror. For example, the thought that allowing himself to think of _it_ as human even for a moment could be the last mistake Gerry makes is terrifying.

So is the fact that he’s never been so turned on in his life.

Falling back into sarcasm is like slipping into a pair of comfortable shoes. “Well, hi. Aren’t you supposed to knock before coming in?”

The darkness recedes bit by bit, leaving behind what looks like — but isn’t — soft skin. Michael’s laugh is high-pitched and off-synch and also terrifying in its own way and fuck, Gerry’s missed it. “I didn’t think you’d answer. Did I scare you?”

“I mean, you surprised me. But it takes more than that to scare me.”

“Noted.” 

Gerry scoffs when Michael leans in, but he doesn’t move. 

Instead of his mouth, though, its lips find his neck, trailing from the soft, vulnerable skin behind the ear and down to the clavicle. Not kissing, just skimming. 

“Michael,” Gerry says, trying to keep everything but reproach from his tone and failing. The way his body responds to the touch has already given him away, regardless. Gerry grabs Michael’s arms, tries to push it away even as his head bends to give it easier access to his neck. “Why are you here?”

“I think that’s obvious, assistant,” it replies.

 _It isn’t fucking obvious, you cheeky, handsy fuck,_ Gerry wants to reply. _It’s been a year of this and we’ve never talked about it and there’s nothing_ obvious _about it._

“I’m at work,” is what he says.

“And?” The question is followed by a playful nibble that will leave a bruise on Gerry’s neck. Good thing he keeps his hair long.

Michael keeps touching him, and it’s not that Gerry doesn’t enjoy the unsettling nature of it — he does, fuck his life — but there are more pressing matters. “And I don’t want Gertrude to walk in.” God, he can’t even start to imagine the _questions_.

Those questions are almost more terrifying than the idea of Gertrude trying to kill Michael — because that’s what would happen, and Gerry doesn’t know who would win such a fight. He doesn’t have answers. At some point he’s just… stopped being afraid of Michael in a way that matters.

It’s not surprising. Considering how (he) _it_ looks at him right now, put-out but resigned, as if it understands that maybe, just _maybe,_ Gerry is right and self-preservation should be a priority for them both. “Fine. Point taken.”

“I get off in two hours, though.” Gerry lifts an eyebrow. “You know where my house is.”

Michael’s smile is sweet in a lethal sort of way. It stands back and Gerry lets it go. (He's the one who told it to go. It's better this way. Don't overthink it.) “Alright. I’ll see you then.”

“And knock this time,” he says, as Michael turns towards the door that wasn't there before.

“Goodbye, assistant!” There’s a last peal of trembling laughter before it disappears.

The creaking door closes behind Michael without being pulled and Gerry runs a hand on his face. Unflappable, everyone says of him. He has such a severe case of poker face that he never drops the mask, not even when he’s alone, but Christ, he can't keep his hands from shaking.

Terror has many layers. This thing with Michael? Whatever it is? It’s terrifying. 

So is the thought that, when it ends, there will be no survivors.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic now has [a little sequel!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26100925/chapters/63640888)
> 
> I didn't know anything about Whistler's work, [his trippy glass sculptures](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAkg95TdrY8&t=143s) and [the ammonites outside the museum](https://www.dorsets.co.uk/sites/default/files/photos/anomite-lyme-regis.jpg) before randomly picking Lyme Regis as a setting. I'm choosing not to be disturbed by the coincidence. Also, from what I've read, Whistler seemed like a cool guy and he probably didn't deserve the Jonny Sims treatment, but here we are.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://mllekurtz.tumblr.com/), if you like.


End file.
